Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 81279 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81279 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
I scream so loudly it makes even my own ears ring.
Chapter 12
Rowan
A head. He’s got a fucking human head in a bag and he’s showing it off like a cat bringing me a dead mouse.
“What the fuck?” I yell, backing away as far as the cuff will allow me.
I’m torn between terror and morbid curiosity, but in the end, I stare at the bluish skin of the man whose head Saint is holding. And as I take my time looking at his features instead of seeing the head merely as a disembodied body part, recognition sets in.
My jaw drops. I’ve been keeping tabs on this man for so long I’d almost became desensitized to seeing his ugly mug, but while he looks different with his features slack, there’s no doubt that this is the same guy who opened my parents' wedding whisky and then smashed the empty bottle on my dad’s head.
“It’s Ted,” I mumble, shaking while my heartbeat speeds up with either fear or… elation?
What. The. Fuck.
Saint exhales, closing his eyes. “Oh, damn. When you made that face, I worried for a moment that I got the wrong guy. But it’s him, right? The first man you want dead? I considered putting him in a box, letting you unpack it, but it didn’t fit in the fridge that way, and I figured it would be overkill.”
The dry blood on Ted’s nose and beard tells me his death was far from peaceful. I should be terrified, and sure, I’m freaking out that this is actually happening, but I don’t feel sorry for him.
Maybe that makes me a bad person, but this human waste deserved whatever he got.
I look back up at Saint’s face, breathless in both terror and wonder. He’s a fucking killer. No doubt about that.
“You did this?” I ask to confirm the obvious.
Saint huffs, pulls up the edges of the bag, and then spins it, to seal the head back inside before placing it under the sink. “I already told you. I saw you dropping the letter, and… it really spoke to me. Reading it felt like meeting an old friend, even though I only learned your name when I saw your signature at the bottom.”
I watch him, stunned, yet feel myself gradually relax in the warm water. A normal person would say ‘yeah, but I didn’t actually want to kill anyone!’, but that wouldn’t be the truth. While I didn’t have any concrete plans on how to get rid of the four men I hate with all my heart, I did want them dead.
I still do.
“So you killed him… for me?”
“That’s what I wanted to propose when I broke into your place. Which I am sorry for, big mistake. I should have done my research first, but I got too excited and wasn’t thinking straight,” Saint tells me, dragging a plastic stool closer to the tub. He sits on it and turns off the water before resting his elbows on the rim and staring into my eyes, like a puppy expecting belly rubs.
I’m trying to organize it all in my head. A killer found my letter and decided to make my Christmas wish come true. Did I miss something?
“So you decided to lie to me instead? Date me? What the fuck?” I have to bite my tongue before I say something worse, because I am cuffed to the wall by a man who just proved how desensitized he is to violence.
Saint blows a raspberry, resting his cheek on one hand. “You weren’t supposed to find out like that. I figured I could ease you into it, get friendly, but then I found out you’re gay too, and it all clicked in my head. We are alike,” he says, waving his other hand between us.
“Except I don’t kill people,” I say through gritted teeth.
He squints at me, and somehow it makes him even more beautiful, like a panther ready to strike. “But you want to.”
It’s more of a statement than a question, and it hangs between us like the last morsel of food on a shared plate. I don’t know how to answer, because he might just be right.
Saint continues with a smirk. “You have the same desires I have, and I’ve been alone for so long. We could be a really good match.”
I suck on my lip, taking it all in. In some ways, Saint is cutting me open. Not with a knife, but with his words. He’s pulling out the ugly side I never show anyone.
I deflect by glancing at the bag under the sink. “Did he suffer? Did he know why he was dying?” my voice gets a raspy undertone I don’t recognize.
Saint’s eyes glint like liquid gold as he leans toward me. “Oh yes. He was terrified. I cut his head off with a saw while he was alive. I don’t enjoy torture, but I figured you wouldn’t want him to go fast. If you have any specific instructions for the other three, we can deal with them your way.”